


The Empty Set

by Blacknovelist



Category: Transistor (Video Game)
Genre: I like the direction I've taken it using city instead, Originally this was Red-based but, Theme: City, Transistor Week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-19
Updated: 2016-05-19
Packaged: 2018-06-09 09:06:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6899773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blacknovelist/pseuds/Blacknovelist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This city has grown terribly, achingly empty.</p><p>(Written for Day 5 of Transistor week: City)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Empty Set

 

* * *

  

Their city has grown to be terribly, achingly empty.  

Oh, certainly, it might not look so; some of the lights might still glitter on the eaves of buildings, twinkling like the stars of their painted skies; windows may beam from within, giving the illusion of home and life and safety somewhere so close and yet so far; the OVC still hums with the words of the people, of newscasters and detectives and citizens hastily running off after leaving comments and publishing articles and sending messages of _I love you_ _please be safe_ to whomever might be there to hear their words; but they know this city. It’s meant to be a place of vibrancy, of light, of chatter and footsteps and opinions, but it is none of that any longer.

For the first time in many, many, many years, the city is silent.

_(t_ _here's still one left wandering the streets; the singer; the changer; the User._   _She digs her heels in with every step she takes and she tries, oh, she tries she tries she tries to bring it all back her lover her city her beautiful living home with every ounce of her being, she does, but they can feel her heart and soul through the Transistor and it’s singing straight through when she leaps from bracket towers; she already knows - knew long before the voice told her so too. but still, she hopes.)_

The first time she sees that glimmering set again, oh, the voice she no longer has fills the room with those same hopes. She sings for the city, for the chairs and the people and the things she’s lost, humming with the determination of a woman who will bring it all back. She will save this place, she will fix everything lost and gone wrong, she will.

Except there is only so much that can be done - for all the unfamiliar and echoing streets, they have a job that demands to be done. Cloudbank has reached her end. There is nothing _to_ bring back, not when everything that is anything (or any _one_ ) has been processed to the point that it could become anything else, no matter what it once might’ve been. 

There are no obstructions or shadows that cut across the streets to darken the ground, no rhythmic thunderous beats of footsteps from above and below, no people to sheepishly stumble past the tinted and glazed glass and turn the lights off, no time to leave a vote for tomorrow’s weather or sign a petition on the terminal that was just passed, and soon even the immovable seem to disappear - there are no lights left to cast shadows from above, no windows to brush past, no skies or bridges or terminals to cast the vote on. 

For the first time in many, many, many years, the city is dark.

_(no hope to be had any longer in the heart of the singer, not for the city at least. She’s no engineer, no architect, no psychologist or social liaison or detective - anything she ever could have done would only change the city, not fix her or build her or bring her any measure of comfort. Isn’t much to change, when there’s nothing left to exist, nothing left to be even half of what it used to be, but maybe there’s still something to preserve. To save. To bring **back**  again somehow._

_One last monument, to her home. To her love. To what she has fought for all this time.)_

When she sees the set again the seats are no longer empty, but they are not full of life - the Process is seated there instead, waiting, listening. They cannot seem to bring themselves to fully destroy this place at which the User’s soul sang in lieu of words and a proper voice with their decaying touch, but their signs of destruction, of emptiness exist nonetheless. The red lights refuse to sparkle off the blank white that replaces the smooth walkways and wide stage.

Red has never been one to disappoint her audience. 

But the song that leaves her lips and shakes through her core is no homage to the city and her people; no impending tales of bravery or dreams of renewed life weave through the air in every note she hums, not anymore. There’s still something left for her to do, there is still determination in that voice, yes, but oh, but it is changed. It is not the determination of a woman with hope, but of a broken warrior with nothing left to lose and everything to gain; the grim work of someone forced to leave behind so much of what she loved because there is simply nothing she can do for them. For Cloudbank.

And she knows it.

 

_Never be sorry for your little time,_

_It’s not when you get there, it’s always the climb,_

_But I won’t save you_

_I won’t save you._

 

For the only time in many, many, many years, their city is gone.

**Author's Note:**

> Considering I've again kept up my age-old tradition of finishing at the dead of night, if there's anything wrong please tell me.
> 
> Inspiration from here: http://blacknovelist55.tumblr.com/post/136926485525/aroacebiancadiangelo-if-you-have-red-hum-on-the


End file.
